


Till Human voices wake us and we drown

by Le_Creationist



Category: The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Battle of Five Armies, Desolation of Smaug, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-20 16:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3657798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Creationist/pseuds/Le_Creationist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Second Age, Prince Thranduil sees his father slain in battle and returns to the Greenwood after their victory in the War of the Last Alliance. Unprepared to be king, he flees west and meets someone unexpected. (carries into events of the Desolation of Smaug and BotFA)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let us go then, you and I

**Author's Note:**

> This fic’s title comes from the TS Eliot poem ‘The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’ and is my attempt at something different with this pairing. There will be more parts to it, but it will not be anywhere near as long as “In Starlight and In Shadow.”

**S.A. 3434**

“Thranduil. Thranduil Oropherion.”

It is what they call him now. He has not heard his own name spoken aloud since he departed from the Greenwood. Neither has he been able to say his father’s name as part of his own until he had put hundreds of miles of distance between himself and his homeland.

The power of a name has never ceased to amaze him, what a mere word can elicit.  _Dagorlad. Oropher. Adar, goheno ion lin._

He did his duty and led what little was left of his father’s army home. He has seen the soldiers’ browbeaten faces, weary of victory and its cost, and knows that the same expression rests upon his own. For a time, he dwelt in the Eryn Galen in a state of alternating rage and sorrow. He was but a prince whose people longed for a king, for Oropher, and his gracious laughter that endeared him to so many.

Thranduil is not his father nor will he ever be. The thought of it stings his eyes and his throat swells with the effort to stifle the grief that binds itself to his heart.

He does not truly know how long it has been since he started running. He thinks of those he left behind, his mother, his kin, and the people who would look next to him to take the throne. But when he took in the sight of his father’s place in the splendor of Amon Lanc, he thinks it will be forever and a day before he can sit in it and feel a true king.

“Thranduil Oropherion.” He says again, to the open air. There is no answer for him but the howling wind and rustling leaves.

He continues south along the Anduin, fording the river where it narrows and then making his way through a long unused pass of the Hithglaer into Eriador. He does not tire even as he forgoes sleep and sustenance in favor of making progress into the West. Before much longer, the endlessness of the Belegaer stretches out in front of him and he is overwhelmed by its glory.

The sand beneath his boots is soft, like the riverbanks in the forests of his home. There are no rocks or washed up kelp—only the vast, pristine white that yields to the ocean beyond it. He treads toward the water slowly. Somewhere along the way he drops his rucksack, blade, and bow. There is no other living being in sight to do him harm.

Thranduil reaches down to place his hand in the water where it laps gently onto the shore. It pours over him, cool against his flesh, and the salty wind jostles his hair.

It is unlike anything he has ever experienced before, even in his earliest years spent in Harlindon ere his father led the Sindar eastward. As the sunlight upon the horizon sets the sea ablaze, Thranduil finds himself blinded and he falls. He lands on his knees and weeps for the memory of his beloved father, for the horrors he has seen of war and the crown he is ill-prepared to take.

The distant gull-song overhead draws him out of his melancholic stupor. Thranduil struggles to stand up, cringing as he feels in his whole body the strain of his journey. He falls again when his legs refuse to obey him, this time he lands flat on his back. The sand is a cushion warmed by the sun. He does not desire to move now, not when the sky above is so beautifully painted in cerulean and orange hues of sunset.

Thranduil closes his eyes as the tide recedes. He is safe here, he will not drown in the coming night. Some distant music touches the periphery of his awareness. It is purer than the gull-song and he knows if he listens closely it will lull him into sleep. He does not wish to dream before the stars and moon reveal themselves. Thranduil forces himself to sit upright with the intent of staying awake.

It is then that he sees her.

“Dhen iston? Man i eneth dhîn?” He asks slowly. There is something ethereal about her that behooves him to keep quiet.

She sits upon the sand within arm’s reach. It startles him how close she came without him noticing, how her song dulled his sharp senses to her approach. Her visage is something feral—her eyes gleam brightly and even in the loamy dusk, he can see the auburn of her long hair. The breeze pushes the strands of it back to reveal her naked waist, his eyes travel downward to find that where legs might have been there is a beautifully formed tail ending in a fin. Her vibrant green scales are set off by the light of Ithil and he is reminded of the Greenwood.

She does not answer.

They remain there for a time, and eventually he lowers himself back down again, the softness of the sand too alluring to withstand. She gracefully pulls herself closer. He tilts his head so he can see as she too lies upon the sand beside him.

“You must have a name,” Thranduil murmurs. On the cusp of sleep, he finds himself more willing to talk to this creature than he was to any of his kin. When she again neglects to answer, he sighs. “One of Ulmo’s daughters perhaps? A lady of the mighty waters, who reigns o’er the Western seas.”

She smiles at that. He finds his own lips curve into one too.

“Nemireth…Lothuial? Nay, I will not impose one upon you.” His musings trail off when he begins to succumb to sleep. The rhythm of the waves soothes him. There is the slightest touch over his cheek and before he drifts away. He hears her whisper, “Tauriel.”

When Thranduil awakens, she is gone.

 

* * *

 

Sindarin translations (from [realelvish.net](http://www.realelvish.net/))

1) Adar, goheno ion lin - Father, forgive me

2) “Dhen iston? Man i eneth dhîn?” – Who are you? (Literally: Do I know you?) What is your name?

3) “Nemireth…Lothuial?” -Jewel of the water…Twilight blossom?


	2. There will be time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has become an absolutely nagging plotbunny that won't relent. Let me know what you think. :)

**T.A. 2460**

It has become tradition. Thranduil returns to the seashore every century to commemorate his father’s passing. Tauriel always finds him; somehow she knows he is near. When he reaches the coastline, he sees the joyful splash in the distance, knowing it is her.

Whether it is because he returns to the exact place each time or if she is attuned to his presence, Thranduil cannot say. He is certain, however, that she anticipates these meetings as much as he.

“I know you are there.” His voice rings out over the waves. The top of her head breaches the surface. Soon enough, she is half out of the water and her long, wet hair hides her torso from his gaze. Rocking sinuously with the ocean, Tauriel faces him directly. He drinks in the vision she presents—in the sunset she burns golden.

“Mae govannen!” She cries. She lets herself be washed ashore where he meets her and scoops her into his arms. He bears her to a spot just past the tideline where they lay beside each other but do not touch. He tells her he is now made king.

“Amon Lanc is the pride of the woodland realm,” He says emphatically. Her smile is indulgent, much to his exasperation. He does not know how to make her _understand._

Before he can continue, she cuts him off. “Shall I tell you of the forest where I dwell? It is not unlike yours.”

Thranduil falls silent. Tauriel has never been one to speak long of the depths from whence she came. In his mind, the ocean floor is a foreboding place that even light cannot reach. He imagines her emerald scales glinting amid the darkness. She says the mighty kelp forests are shelter for a plethora of sea-creatures. There is fondness there. There is also a longing for something more.

It is why she is here with him, gazing at the silver moon.

“…Would you like to see it?” Tauriel whispers eventually. Thranduil frowns.

“It is not possible.”

“No harm will come to you.” She ghosts the tips of her fingers over his leather vambrace. He restrains the impulse to shiver at her lightest touch. “You know this.”

He says nothing for a long while. The Edain who make their living at sea have many a song about sirens that lure Men to their deaths, his kin too are familiar with these songs. In all the time he has known Tauriel, never once did he fear for his life; yet there are times when her eyes flash and her smile becomes sharper than a knife’s edge. She is not one to cross. Perhaps no harm will come to him because she is in fact the most dangerous thing in the entire ocean.

He trusts her. Perhaps it is folly to believe her claim.

“Whither shall thou lead?” His pulse leaps with sudden panic. Why does he obey her without question?

Once he brings her back to the water, Tauriel disappears into the waves. He disrobes as he walks toward his rucksack to leave his garments in a heap there. The night wind is cold against his bare skin and the water even colder when he takes his first tentative steps in.

Submerged to the waist, outright shaking and half-numb, Thranduil has no time to gasp before he is yanked roughly downward. The sensation of full immersion is jarring and he flails before he realizes that she is holding his hand and laughing at his reaction.

He glares at her but she does not see it. Together they make their way to the edge where the sand drops into a bottomless abyss. It is precisely what he imagined and not. He did not expect the silence to comfort him. He is entranced by the way her body navigates the currents, by the graceful arch of her back as she swims ahead of him.

As they descend, the filtered moonlight continually lessens until he cannot see at all. In the darkness, he relinquishes his kingship and its thousand burdens. _Take it from me, please._ It travels from his closed lips pressed against hers in a kiss. He can only feel her as she draws him closer in her arms. They are suspended in the obscurity—straddling the line between reality and imagination.

When they part, he pulls away with a gasp.

Thranduil finds himself on the shore, his naked chest heaving with the memory of the way the nymph’s lips felt upon his. He returns to the Greenwood and the life he knows, to Glawardis and her constancy. She is the embodiment of the most precious starlight. They are wed not long after. It is quite some time before he thinks of glittering emerald scales and the elegant sweep of auburn hair beneath the water.

He does not travel west for centuries. He cannot bear to leave the Eryn Galen, not even to mourn his father. There is life in the Greenwood now, Thranduil rejoices in it. The encroaching Shadow from the south has not yet taken root, though he feels its inevitability. He loves Glawardis, and their child, but sometimes in the lonely hours of the night, he hears the song of the sea.

On the brink of sleep, Thranduil holds his wife close yet dreams of auburn hair with strings of gleaming pearls woven through it and knife-edge smiles. Of a kiss half-realized and forgotten. He wonders if she mourns his absence—if he haunts her as she does him.  

His son is born that year. They name him Legolas and raise him in the beauty of the woodland. It is a long time before he remembers who awaits him on the other edge of the world. He goes to the river alone when time allows and bends to dip his palm into the rushing water.

_Nên vêr a lalaith veren n'i a-govenim._

The words are carried by the river from the Greenwood into the West, where he hopes she will catch them as they drift into the raging seas.

* * *

 

Sindarin translations (from realelvish dot net)

Nên vêr a lalaith veren n'i a-govenim – Sweet water and joyous laughter until we next meet.

 


	3. Time for all the works and days of hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously guys, this plotbunny will not be stopped. I haven't agonized over plot or editing or anything except that I played with the ambiguity of Legolas's age. Consider this direct proof of the chaos in my head lol. Thanks for all who've read so far!

**T.A. 2770**

The world is changing. Thranduil cannot keep pace with its changes—he has lost so much and stands to lose more. He keeps Legolas close to him, even as he grows up. His son looks to him with curiosity in his eyes.

“Ada, why do we never go to the woods anymore?” Legolas asks one day. It is spring and the season calls to the elfling. By all means, it should have been the season for frolicking outdoors. Thranduil stoops down so that he is eye to eye with his son.

“There are creatures in the woods that make them unsafe to our folk. I would have none of you harmed, so in our Halls we will remain.”

The words of the young are always brutal. The innocence in Legolas’s voice tears at him when he softly asks, “Did they steal nana away?”

Thranduil finds himself powerless to respond. The Eryn Galen darkens and he has moved his people north. He is King Thranduil, the last great Elvenking in Arda. He betrays nothing though he is afraid.

The lengths to which he will go to keep his people safe amaze those old enough to remember the horrors of Thingol’s murder. It is a mark of Thranduil’s desperation that he should commission the Dwarven-king Thrór’s builders to make a stronghold for him. It is an intricate system of caverns where the Wood-elves can safely dwell. The King under the Mountain agrees—with one stipulation. He has heard of the gems of Lasgalen, of their otherworldly beauty, and what Thrór desires, he shall have.

Thranduil inwardly balks at this. These gems are heirlooms of his people. They are timeless. They belonged to his mother, then most recently, most _painfully,_ to his wife. He cannot falter before the Dwarves, he is too proud. He forces out of his mind his promise to Glawardis.

When the bargain is struck, the deeds signed and payment agreed upon, Thranduil knows he has made the best decision. The Dwarves are masters of their craft—where mountains once stood there now existed the Elvenking’s Halls, stately and impenetrable. No foul things can harm them here; his trust in the Dwarves was well-founded despite historical precedent.

Thranduil sends the Dwarven retinue off with their precious cargo. The welfare of his kin, of his young son, is far more precious than any gemstone. At the height of Erebor’s majesty, Thranduil pays homage to Thrór and thanks him for the work of his people. Astonishingly, the Dwarves present the very same gems that Thranduil never thought to lay eyes on again.

Does King Thrór mean to return them, in a gesture of goodwill? He reaches toward the open chest that bears Glawardis’s necklace, only to have it snapped shut at Thrór’s whim. Evidently the King under the Mountain thinks Thranduil a fool for paying such a high price for a stronghold made purposefully inferior to Erebor.

He does not speak. Turning to depart, the Elves harden their hearts to the Dwarves—the Elvenking has warned Thrór what his avarice will summon. Thranduil knows well the desolation of dragonfire. Though he led the war effort against the fire-drakes of the North, there is one that still lives. The one that claimed Glawardis’s life. It is only a matter of time before it descends upon Erebor’s treasures.

Thranduil watches from his Halls as his prediction comes true. Smaug the Golden has come. Erebor is sacked. The lake shines and burns. He feels a deep sense of sorrow for the Edain of Dale and Esgaroth whose only fault was their proximity to the Lonely Mountain. These prosperous realms are felled in less than a day. When a message for aid arrives from Thorin, grandson of Thrór, Thranduil considers sending his army.

When he sees the grim resolve in his warriors' faces, Thranduil’s anguish consumes him. He does not want more blood on his hands. No help came from the Elves that day nor any day since; whatever good relations there were between them and the Dwarves were severed.

Orcs and giant spiders creep closer to the borders of his diminished kingdom. Thranduil longs more than ever for the peace of the sea. It is the intoxicating oblivion and the softness of the sea-nymph’s lips that are salient in his memory. Will she understand all that has come to pass, all that has kept him away?

In a fit of pique, Thranduil leaves the realm to his Council. He kisses Legolas farewell and promises to return, though even at that young age, the princeling knows better than to fully believe him.

He clearly remembers the way but finds he must chart a new path. The place where he forded the Anduin has widened dangerously and the pass through the Hithglaer is now beset by the presence of Orcs. The power of the sea-song swells the closer he gets.

At last he comes to the beach he loves so well. Of the changes he has seen and felt in the world, this haven is unchanged. He stalks toward the water and stands knee deep, the waves break dramatically on the shore and threaten to reel him in. His impatience gets the better of him. He wades further and further into the water, he swims forth and with the biggest breath he can take, plunges into the ocean. His vision is bleary as he searches for her.

When he feels like he will faint from lack of air, Tauriel emerges from the depths. Striking as ever, her hair is still festooned with pearls and her eyes full of gladness when they meet his. She takes his hands and steadies him against the powerful current. No harm will come to him when she is near. The protector becomes the protected in this kingdom of blessed silence.

Later, they lay upon the sand as they used to. She begrudges him not for his long absence. He tells her of the wife he’s loved and lost, and of his son.

“You only come to me when you are in need of comfort.” Tauriel says sadly. “Is it an equal trade for you expect me here but when I might have need of that same comfort, you are nowhere to be found?”

Tears spill from her eyes and the sight of her weeping is more than he can bear. A daughter of the seas is not meant to weep, her tears are her lifeblood. He does not want her to shed them on his behalf. There is too much sadness in the world; he never wants to be the cause of hers again. Despite this, he knows he will hurt her anyway and the foresight pains him.

“Would that you could return with me,” He says, voice thick. She has been with him for thousands of years in spirit. They both know that nothing more is possible.

Before he leaves, Tauriel gives him a strand of the pearls she has always worn. The world is changing and Thranduil knows not what lies ahead. When the Eryn Galen becomes Mirkwood and the darkness feels especially oppressive, he holds the pearls close and thinks of her.


	4. Across the floors of silent seas

**T.A. 2940**

The eaves of the forest cast long and dark shadows. The paths of Mirkwood are treacherous even to those who built them in the elder days. All feel the effects of the insidious Necromancer from Dol Guldur but none more so than King Thranduil.

He has grown colder, harsher. It is like his soul is carved in two—one half mutely watches the other as it drives him to speak soft and cruel words to those he loves. Legolas only comes to him to deliver his reports about patrols. His son is the Captain of the royal guard—a prestigious assignment that went without dispute to the heir apparent.

The Elvenking’s subjects make great efforts to appease him. They pander and obfuscate to avoid his wrath. He should not enjoy the way speech in a room dies upon his entry. He should not be proud that he is a vicious force to be reckoned with. It is better that his word is obeyed without question and there is no greater motivator than fear. It means his people will endure.

Seasons have come and gone. Ennui might have once spurred him on a westward journey. Now he knows he cannot shirk his duties so easily. How reckless he had been, all for a little sea-nymph who gave him a string of raw pearls. No matter how much he now disdains them he cannot get rid of them. They lay undisturbed in his bedchamber at the bottom of some drawer…the sea-song no longer haunts his dreams.

The cadence of life in the Woodland Realm is rudely interrupted by a rag-tag band of Dwarves. It is autumn, the boughs of oak and beech swathed in red and gold. Even the trees rebel against the darkness. Their solemn beauty is marred by the presence of outsiders. As it turns out, kin of the very outsiders who mocked their own creation. Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thráin, asks him for help in reclaiming the kingdom ‘neath the Mountain.

The dialogue plays out how Thranduil predicts. Thorin hurls insults in Khuzdul and the common tongue, Thranduil sends the Dwarven prince to the dungeons where the rest of them are locked up. He sits upon his throne in raiment glimmering. None who enter his kingdom without permission go unpunished.

What he does  _not_  foresee is his son and guards returning from a patrol bearing another prisoner. It seems his dungeons will have a new addition not a few days after the Dwarves’ arrival.

“She was found on the banks of the Forest River. Says she was making a voyage this way to visit an old friend. She had nothing with her, not even clothes on her back,” Legolas’s voice is hot with suspicion. The fine cloak covering the maiden’s shoulders belongs to the prince. Her face is hidden by the billowing hood. “There was no boat to be found.”

Thranduil stares impassively down at all of them. He sees the guards shift nervously. Only Legolas is unperturbed by his stillness.

“Explain your trespass to the king and he will show you mercy.” The prince urges.

When both of the guards release her, they expect her to step forward to face the Elvenking. She stumbles and falls to the floor. It is not a sign of deference. Her legs cannot support her weight, they are pale and atrophied where the hem of the cloak has risen to reveal them.

The sleeves of the cloak slide backward as her hands come up to push back the hood.

Time comes to a halt.

His face is utterly changed. Something has broken cleanly through the king’s carapace of icy intimidation.

“Ni veren an dhe ngovaned, Thranduil.” Tauriel says. Her voice echoes and floats up toward the dais where he sits. He blindly grasps at the armrests of his throne. Her glorious mane of red is tucked inside the cloak and where once her beautiful fin was were now two legs. He cannot reconcile this present image of her with the one he’s harbored in his mind for thousands of years.

Only when he realizes Legolas and the guards are staring, thunderstruck, at the familiarity of her tone does Thranduil slam his façade back into its rightful place. His eyes narrow. His lip curls with contempt.

“You will answer for your trespass. A cell awaits you in the dungeon below should you refuse to.” Thranduil says brusquely. He watches the tender smile on her lips fade. Tauriel’s eyes flash in that way he remembers— _he will hurt her anyway and the foresight pains him—_ and if they were at sea, the look on her face would mean a death sentence for him.

Several long moments pass. The longer the silence drags on, the more unquiet the guards become.

Tauriel grits her teeth. She draws her legs under her and presses her palms to the ground on either side of her. He sees her shaking. She bites her lip with the effort but she succeeds in rising to her feet.

“You no longer deign to come to the sea, so the sea has come to you with all its fury.”

Belatedly, Thranduil notices how her lips are dry and cracked, her skin is deathly pale. Her words are potent but her body weak from going too long without water. He is off his throne and rushing toward her as her eyes roll back. He catches her before she falls again and all who see this are shocked beyond comprehension.

Thranduil says nothing as he carries her limp form to his chambers. He knows what he must do.

He peels his son’s cloak off of her to find she is all fair skin and lithe limbs. The sight of legs still unnerves him. She is unresponsive as he lowers her into the generously sized bath. Thranduil watches as her auburn hair darkens to the shade he remembers.

Thranduil waits with bated breath. She is fully submerged now, her eyes still shut and lips slightly parted. Soon enough her pale legs join and the alabaster flesh of her thighs knits together. The skin is gradually overtaken by bright green scales. They appear in a mesmerizing ripple from her hip down. He watches the fin begin to form—the soft membrane flutters to life.

Her eyes snap open before she surges up and breaches the surface of the bathwater. He expects her to hit him, or perhaps drag him into the bath and drown him. She only stares.

He stares back at her like he will drink her dry until she is empty of rage. As if she is the wine he oft indulges in. Like him she is immortal, unchanged in body save for the great and terrible beauty of her eyes. Her face is a map of the world she’s traveled to get to him.

“Díheno nin.” Thranduil whispers. He is on his knees at the edge of the basin.

“Ben iest gîn.” She answers.

* * *

Sindarin translations: (from Sindarin phrasebook at realelvish dot net)

1) Ni veren an dhe ngovaned, Thranduil - I am so glad to see you, Thranduil

2) “Díheno nin.” – Forgive me

3) “Ben iest gîn.” – As you wish


	5. Voices dying with a dying fall

**T.A. 2941**

Tauriel rises from the water, made anew. There is resilience in her sinewy physicality. The quarters prepared for her are near his and just as expansive. With no basis for comparison, she is uncertain of her status. Thranduil knows she has never been among so many Elves before much less lived as one.

The courtiers gossip. He hears all of it despite their efforts to hide their whispering. _She hails from Belfalas. One of Cirdan’s kin or perhaps of the Avorrim, though it is said not many of them are kissed by such fire in looks or spirit._

It was true enough. Tauriel learned Elvish by lingering near ships at anchor in Mithlond. He himself taught her the dialect of the woodland. Over the years she developed an uncanny grasp for the language.

Garbed in elven dress, Tauriel can pass for a Silvan. Her hair reaches her lower back when fully dried and is worn in elven braids as if the braids could somehow contain its wildness. Now that she is rested she walks with the air of a Wood elf. It is a carefully studied air but only _just_ so. He cautions himself that the poise in the turn of her head and flick of her eyes are not to be admired.   
  
"I am no elf-maid," Tauriel reminds him.  She is the Belegaer incarnate, far more Ossë than Uinen at that. He would do well to recall it.   
  
"While you reside here, you must play the part." How strange it is to be standing with her in his chambers, to realize the top of her head hardly reaches his shoulder.  
  
"Yes. We all have parts to play, do we not?" Her tone bites into him. It is meant to rile him, and he rises to her bait. Thranduil elongates his spine and rises to his full height.  
  
"I am a king who had just sent a company of Dwarves to the dungeons. Had I shown you--a foreigner for all intents and purposes and just as much an intruder--any favor, the rest of--"  
  
She holds a hand up to stop him. He obeys and falls silent. An apology lingers at the tip of his tongue for how he has treated her, centuries after their last parting. He swallows the words and knows that the hurt he inflicted cannot be taken back. Perhaps they had fallen through her as stones sink in water and disappear.

It occurs to him that this night is Mereth Nuin Giliath. He tells her that the Eldar feast beneath starlight every autumn and she accepts his arm with a half-smile. It is a breathtaking introduction to his world. The repast is bountiful, she sips her first mouthful of Dorwinion wine and sputters. She watches the dancers with keen eyes.

When the minstrels take up their instruments, Tauriel seems to lean into the music. He thinks, with a hint of jealousy, that she will join in song. She will captivate all who hear like she had when he was a prince in mourning.

To his relief, she sits back in her chair only to listen. The feast has lasted the night. Dawn approaches, the eastern sky begins to lighten.

“Hir nin Thranduil, the Dwarves have escaped!” A guard storms into the terrace, destroying the ambiance. The king’s wrath is instantly visible, Tauriel is the only one who does not shrink away. Legolas gives his commands and the guards are sent running to the subterranean water-gates.

The prince’s furtive glances at the maiden have not gone unnoticed. Tauriel knows he watches her. He wonders who she is that his father should be so enthralled. She is deceptively strong and quick on her feet. He traces her movements as she follows his guards from the terrace in baffling pursuit.

They have come to the rocky edges of the Forest River. The Dwarves have escaped in barrels carried by the rapids, the Wood-elves sprint after them and let their arrows fly. Legolas realizes Tauriel has undone the laces of her bodice by the time they reach the river. Her dress falls past her hips to the ground. Legolas does not avert his eyes.

She throws a look of determination at him over her shoulder. “I can get them back.”

“How?” He asks incredulously. His hands grip his bow, there is an arrow nocked.

There is no hesitation in the way she runs toward the water. She leaps off the smallest cliff headfirst, he loses sight of her as she dives off the rocks. Legolas follows with a cry. As he stands and peers over the cliff there are no signs of her. Only the sound of the rapids as they go ever on. He cannot allow his confusion distract him. Legolas joins the hunt for his father’s prisoners, to find that the Elves are not the only ones after them.

Though the Elves fight off the Orcs they can, they eventually cease their pursuit. Legolas watches the Dwarves float farther down the river and wonders what became of the woman who dove in after them. His guards succeeded in capturing a lone goblin, a hideous thing that spouts obscenities all the way back to his father’s Halls.

Under duress, Thranduil comes to know why these creatures have dared enter his kingdom so brazenly. He dispatches it without further ado and Legolas is repulsed by the way its headless body twitches in death.

Mirkwood’s borders are sealed off by order of the king. When Legolas tells his father what became of Tauriel, Thranduil does not check his pace as he strides away.

* * *

 

When Legolas catches his father alone in his chambers, he appears deep in contemplation. The king stands, observing the waterfalls that embellish his quarters as their stronghold is nestled above the Forest River. The king has been unsettled ever since the fire-haired maiden arrived then departed so unexpectedly.

“Tauriel told me she intended to bring the Dwarves back, though by what means I cannot imagine.” Legolas remarks with a frown.

“She is a warrior of a different brand.” The history imbued in Thranduil’s speech draws his son’s notice.

“Do you love her, adar?” The prince asks abruptly. He fears the answer as soon as he poses the question. He cannot forget the look on his father’s face—vulnerable, thoroughly unlike himself—when Tauriel addressed him in the throne room.

The distant roar of the falling water fills the silence between them. Thranduil looks at his son, Glawardis’s son. Do the strings of a lute love each other though they are forever set apart but quiver with the same music? The Eldar are prone to the allure of sea-song, even those who never heeded the call to Aman. She is an unknowable entity no matter how many times he ventured west to see her. He is uncertain if he loves her or only the idea of her. He wonders why he must make the distinction.

“No,” Thranduil whispers. “She is nothing to me.”

The lie is not quite drowned out by the steady crash of the waterfalls resounding through the caverns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get a gold star if you spot the Khalil Gibran reference.


	6. When the wind blows the water white and black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very wild re-imagining of the end of DOS and beginning of BotFA. If you feel so inclined, please let me know what you think. ^_^ Thanks for reading and all the commentary thus far.

**T.A. 2941**

The stirrings of the Mountain and trembling earth forewarn the Elvenking. The prince disregards the king’s orders to stay put and leaves to track the Orcs, unable to forget neither the words of the one they held captive nor his father’s reaction to them.

_Do you understand now, elfling? Death is upon you. The flames of war are upon you!_

All the while Legolas Greenleaf follows the riverside path by which the Dwarves fled Mirkwood, he thinks of Tauriel. He thinks of how his father said one thing and meant another. The prince, however, is not fooled.

Days pass and blend together. He arrives at the eastern mouth of the Forest River where the open sky stretches out over the settlement he knows as Lake-town. Legolas remembers what his father said: the Dwarves will court the dragon’s wrath and ruin if they have their way.

Legolas makes quick work of carving out a fallen sapling. He fashions a small boat for himself to complete the journey. The dwarves would need weapons and supplies ere they attempt to reclaim their kingdom. Lake-town is where he will find them and stop them if Tauriel has not already done so.

He can see her clearly in his mind. The prospect of the hunt changed her. It blazed through her air of quiet reservation and set her eyes alight. Legolas knows of his father’s pilgrimages to the western sea; he asked once and was met with silence. Tauriel is the answer to hundreds of years of Legolas’s unvoiced questions. Even when he first saw her trembling with fatigue upon the river bank in his kingdom Legolas knew she was an element all her own. She is not one of his race but a creation of forces unseen. He is no longer surprised his father could be so drawn to her.

Legolas arrives by nightfall. He finds the town under siege by the very same pale Orcs of the north, the loathsome warriors of Gundabad. He kills as many as he can as he follows them to the house where the Dwarves took refuge. Upon finding that Thorin Oakenshield and those among them who are warriors had already set off for the Lonely Mountain, Legolas departs the house with haste.

He chases the Orc that leads the pack toward the northern bridge, engaging it in close combat but to no avail. Brushing his hand beneath his nose, he realizes he has not been knocked flat or bled from a blow since he was a youth in the training yard. Anger rushes through his veins as he watches Bolg, son of Azog, mount his warg to flee.

The Dwarves he questions are more honest than he expects perhaps because his disdain for them no longer colors his speech. The young, black-haired archer comes forward to tell him that Tauriel was among the group that went ahead.

“My uncle keeps her with him,” The one named Kíli says gravely, “to ensure that your father will not move against us once we reclaim Erebor.”

“How was she forced into this?” Legolas growls. What civility he displayed begins to vanish. His heart pounds and his expression is stern. The human children behold him with awe. The dwarves eye him warily. What madness do these dwarves believe his father capable of? The king will not move against them because there is a _dragon_ ‘neath the mountain, not because Thorin Oakenshield holds a sea-nymph hostage.

“Tauriel was not forced. She has power over these waters and was about to drag us back to Mirkwood before we reached the Long Lake.” The other dwarf by the name of Fíli added. The resemblance between the brothers is apparent to Legolas as they stand side by side.

“I…I shot an arrow and struck her fin. She might have drowned us. Thus we brought Tauriel here and healed her wound.” Kíli’s face is gentle as he speaks her name. Legolas knows his father is not the only one taken with her. “She agreed to help us of her own free will though she made clear her intention to save your forests from the threat of dragon-fire. Above and before all else.”

Legolas considers what the dwarves have said. Tauriel goes willingly, if for different motivations, with the Dwarven company to slay the dragon. She acts with Thranduil’s interests in mind at great risk to herself. If she has survived this far on her own power and ability, she will need no rescue. Legolas cannot waste time—there are other sinister plans afoot and he must discover the Orcs’ intent. He departs from Lake-town with the northern winds spurring his horse onward.

* * *

Thranduil’s loathing of the sons of Durin is rekindled when they disturb and wake the dragon.

Indeed, for a second time Thranduil watches the lands beyond his forest burn. It is a bitter and fortunate thing that the dragon avoids Mirkwood. Smaug the Golden remembers the fierce warriors of the woodland. He dares not attack the Elves nor do they have wealth compared to the Dwarves. 

What Thranduil does not see is the Man who stands alone to confront Smaug with naught but a single black arrow. It is shot from a makeshift wind-lance, the man’s son props the arrow on his shoulder as his father nocks it and pulls back with all his might. His aim does not falter even as his town blazes all around in an all-encompassing inferno.

The arrow flies. The dragon shrieks as it hits its mark in the hollow of a missing scale. Still, Smaug does not fall. He crashes and blunders into the burning remains of houses, crushing people underfoot.

The flames rising from the lake do not hinder Smaug’s progress from the town into the water as he stumbles. His great cry puts fear into the hearts of all who hear it. He breathes his wrath into the air. The lake seems to glow then but not because of the fire.

Opaque black clouds congregate overhead, blown in by a wild wind from the remote west. If one listens closely the sea-song roars above the wind—the song wraps itself around the dragon to lure it into the depths. The monstrous serpent clambers farther and farther in as if entranced by the song and his own pain from the wound in his chest. Those who can, watch the beast in its confusion with horrified fascination.

A mighty storm is unleashed. The lake convulses and great waves rise as if it were the tempestuous ocean itself. Lake-town’s folk take what shelter they can as the downpour extinguishes the dragon-fire and floods the wreckage. It is the most stunning and terrifying thing the people have ever seen. When once they feared the fire, the fishermen and merchants now fear the very water from which they made their living.

As massive as Smaug is, he has not the strength to fight the watery chains that come forth to drag him under. Lightning flashes, the thunder growls its answer and the rain falls ever harder. Amid this glorious chaos, the folk of Lake-town see a maiden who rides the crest of a single enormous wave. It rolls and gathers strength, mercifully avoiding the remnants of Lake-town. At last it fells the dragon, swallowing its lifeless body into the unfathomable deep.

Bard and his ancestor may have weakened the dragon’s hide, but it is the daughter of the western seas who puts an end to Smaug the Golden.


	7. Indeed there will be time

The evening is come and all is silent. Singed remains of houses and peoples' belongings litter the shoreline. Thranduil treads slowly toward the water, carefully stepping through it all. He looks across the water toward the Mountain—this is where the Halfling told him he would find her.

With Bard of Lake-town mounted on horseback at his side and a combined army at their backs, Thranduil had gone to the gate of the Lonely Mountain. He despised being taunted from such a disadvantage. It did not matter how much of a threat his army posed to the Dwarves; the gate was impervious even to an army of his best fighters.

Only after he and Bard failed to come to terms with Thorin did the tables turn. Bilbo Baggins of the Shire came to their camp with the smuggled Arkenstone in hand and with the interest of furthering peace. The Halfling also claimed that he set the sea-maiden free where the Celduin rose from Erebor’s gates.

For this reason, the certainty that she will be there constricts his lungs and weighs him down from his very bones.

At last her slender silhouette appears. Tauriel swims to the shallow water and sits, twisting her locks over one shoulder as she always did. His relief is palpable. The tension he carried since receiving Legolas's missive finally abates. The image of her held captive by Dwarves haunted his waking hours on the way to Dale. He sinks down to his knees and sits on his heels on the dry sand.

"What happened?" Thranduil reaches tentatively toward her. Tauriel takes his hand in hers and guides it to her fin where it has curled protectively inward. He can feel the torn membrane, both sides of the wound are slightly raised like a scar will form. Though the wound is closed, there will be a mark left after it heals. Rivulets of water left on her shoulders make her skin glisten. Her eyelashes are dark against her fair cheeks and he notices she has kept her hair braided in the elvish style.

"This is from an arrow point clumsily torn out." The timber of his voice has dropped in realization. He is filled with unholy rage at the thought of her injured by dwarvish weapons. Her hand moves over his in a caress as if to stem the barrage of curses he has in mind for the company of Thorin, son of Thráin.

"No flesh wound can stop me from protecting you." Tauriel speaks frankly. He thinks he had quite forgotten the way love can be a double-edged sword. He does not guard his expression in front of her. It is only too easy to let her see him as he is, not what he prefers the rest of the world to see.

"I will not have you harmed, especially on my behalf. The grey wizard warns of Orc armies, you will be in mortal danger here. So have the Dwarves chosen their path and they will die in defense of their accursed kingdom." Thranduil says roughly. He resolves to bear her back to his Halls, beyond that, it is her choice whether to dwell in the woodland or return to the sea. The army that he brought to wage war for her will sheath its swords and retreat. He wants no part in another war, he has had his fill of death. No speech that Mithrandir delivers will dissuade him from his course.

“You think your life is worth more than theirs?' She speaks gently, as if she knows her words can break him. “The Dwarves are part of this world as much as we are, even if you do not care for them or their culture. Do not let this be your legacy. There is love in you yet.”

“And look what it has brought to my people," He retorts sharply, "Complacency leads to despair and fear."

Tauriel sighs as he turns aside. "Do you think I am a stranger to loss, dear prince?" Her voice is tinged with quiet, ragged grief. Thranduil grants her the courtesy of meeting her eyes. He is ashamed that he has never once considered this, that he has never once asked.

"My people now dwell away from the light, down in the forests of the sea. I am the last who dares venture out. We are hunted for sport, for the beauty of our form, for our treasures. I have seen kith and kin slaughtered by fishermen, for my part I have fled from harpoon and net with the cries of those left behind filling my ears. I have saved some and lost more to the brutality. There were ample chances for my heart to turn to hatred, but I find that there is still love in me. So too is there in you, Thranduil Oropherion."

Somehow he is the prodigal son of the woodland realm again, she the beguiling sea-girl. Disparate creatures united in grief on a cloudless winter night. The sound of his name on her tongue quietens the thrumming discord in his mind.

"Return to thy ocean ere the fighting begins." The plea sounds strange coming from him. It has been an age since he last begged like this. "I will come to you when this is over."

Tauriel lowers her gaze. "I would not part from you yet…Will you take a turn about the water with me now?"

Thranduil discreetly surveys their surroundings. There is not a living soul to be found. His guards were taken aback by his demand to be left alone, but they heeded him and remained behind at their camp. He stands up to disrobe while she twists and swims farther out to await him. With each garment shed goes his defenses against her. His light mail falls, clinking softly as he drops it atop the pile.

Wading into the lake, Thranduil grasps Tauriel’s outstretched hand. He withstands the sting of freezing water just until her touch wholly warms him. They keep their heads above the surface and she takes them out into the center. They are flanked by forest and mountain, bathed by the light of the Netted Stars of the Remmirath.

It is this memory of her that he keeps in his heart when the Orc legions burst from the earth. The hordes of hell charge toward him, the Men and Dwarves. Thranduil has long been a vessel scraped raw of feeling, he has bled and bled until nothing was left. A thousand years of numbness are dashed the moment he leads his troops to battle, knowing that his son is among them and that Tauriel is gone.

He will take a stand.

It may well be his last.


	8. After the Sunsets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are at the end of this crazy ride. I hope you all enjoyed, and thank you for indulging my need to write Mermaid Tauriel.
> 
> Lastly, to be clear, we pick up after the death of King Elessar of Gondor and when the last of the Elves depart Middle Earth from the Grey Havens (Mithlond).

**F.A. 121**

Tauriel did as the Elf-king bade and took to the water. It carried her swiftly until the rivers merged and flowed into the ocean. To the depths she retreats, not to be seen by mortal eyes until her king returns to her. Knowledge of sea-folk passes into legend. The waves cast themselves high upon the rocky shores only to fall back from whence they came, a lover’s embrace coaxing the earth ever closer but to no avail.

Over time, many of the Eldar come to the Grey Havens to board the ships there. They sail and depart the circles of the earth, solemn and fair. Their songs meld with the music of the sea so perfectly that the rest of the world seems to sigh with veneration, as one admires trees in autumn before their leaves pass to barrenness. There would be no spring for the Eldar but in Aman.

It carries on this way until at last there are hardly any elves remaining among the races of Arda.

A pair of travelers arrive just south of the Havens on a cold winter morn. One is clad in elven clothes and his braided hair gleamed like finely spun threads of pale gold. The other is of considerably lesser height and dressed just as finely, his beard an impressive sight even to those not of the Dwarven race.

They traverse the empty beach until they come to stand upon the tideline.

“Legolas, how can you possibly hope to find her? By your account it has been nigh on two hundred years since you last saw her.”

The elf prince is undaunted. His sight is far-reaching and he can see for miles into the great distance. He looks to the seam of heaven and earth—the horizon—and he simply knows she will come.

“Gimli, the magic of the sea-folk is not to be underestimated. My father was adamant,” A look of sadness crossed Legolas’s face, “I will not dishonor him by leaving his request unfulfilled.”

Still, his companion is skeptical. Gimli stands at Legolas’s side as they await the appearance of the mysterious sea-maiden. The dwarf is unquiet. He and his people have traditionally avoided the sea. Hours pass and the sun makes its progress across the sky. Legolas keeps watch until at last his patience and faith are rewarded.

“There!” Gimli cries, pointing toward the sea. Legolas smiles in reply. The same sadness is still etched into the turn of his mouth and bend of his brow. He thinks of Thranduil, how his father should be here now instead of him. He thinks of what he must tell Tauriel and hopes he will have strength enough to give it voice. How he wept when he discovered what the War of the Ring did to the land of his birth and to its king!

Without any warning, a slim figure darts from the rippling surface. Legolas watches the swiftness of the dive, the rise and fall, before she plunges back into the water with hardly a splash. No matter how sharp his eyes are, she is still a blur of deep emerald as her tail disappears below the surface.

It is astonishing how quickly she arises from the rippling waves, emerging sure-footedly as her fin gives way to two slender legs that allow her to pad onto the sand until she is standing before them. Legolas finds himself at a loss for words. There is hope in Tauriel’s bright eyes but it is tempered by growing apprehension.

“Mellyn nin,” The sea-maiden says, looking at both. Her long tresses cover over her body and preserve her modesty before the elf and dwarf. Gimli is as speechless as his elven companion. It is not her beauty that impresses him though she wore her ferociousness with such aplomb. There is a sense that she carries the sea in her and with but a word she can set its fury upon them. This is what Gimli, son of Glóin , will forever remember.

“You look well, my lady.” Legolas finally begins. He gestures elegantly toward Gimli, “This is my friend, Gimli. He was, until recently, Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond.”

Again, her piercing eyes meet the dwarf’s and her smile is gentler than one might have expected.

“I am pleased to meet you, Lord Gimli. Legolas thinks highly of you, since you have come to sail with him hence.”

She looks amused by their shock. Without waiting for their reply, Tauriel turns to gaze at the horizon.

“Come now. I have watched ship after ship depart, all bearing the Eldar and their chosen companions from this world into the next. You must have come for this same end or you would not have come at all.”

“Alas, your assessment rings true, Tauriel.” Legolas murmurs. He looks deeply troubled and her teasing look becomes more sober. Gimli knows there is some painful knowledge to be passed from one to the other and he steps back in respect.

Tauriel abandons her view of the setting sun. Backlit by the crimson hue, her hair blows in the wind like a wild halo. Legolas inhales deeply of the briny air ere he speaks further.

“My father was gravely hurt by the war against darkness.” Hot tears sting his eyes at the bitter remembrance. “I bade him farewell and must go now to the land of my ancient forebears. He will not meet me there, he says it is his duty to dwell in the northern forest until his time is come.”

He looks to her and her eyes gleam brightly from the film of unshed tears. When Tauriel takes his hand firmly, he corrects himself. Her eyes are not emeralds but the most indelible of diamonds. She will not weep, for her strength is beyond any earthly force he can imagine.

“Legolas.” Tauriel whispers, punctuated by the waves that break upon the shore behind her. “Your father loves you far more than the promise of any kind of eternal paradise.”

The prince’s tears fall unimpeded. He knows she speaks the truth though it is no easier to hear now that Legolas will shortly be sundered from his adar.

“If they who rule at the other edge of this world will allow thee entrance, you must not scorn it. Go forth and be happy—there has been too much sorrow under the trees of your youth.” She brushes his tears from his cheeks with gentle fingers.

“My father is unable to venture here. He thinks his brokenness renders him unworthy of your esteem or regard.” Legolas tells her desperately. He cannot stand the thought of his father alone and infirm in the shadows of the greenleaves.

Indeed the populace of the Woodland Realm has dwindled to almost nothing. Those who remain do not inhabit the Elvenking’s Halls like they did in times of old. The Wood-elves are now a scattered people. In times of peace, they have no great need of a king.

The confession lingers between them. Gimli maintains his reverent silence as she kisses Legolas’s cheeks in farewell. She presents the dwarf with a necklace strung of the finest shells and kisses the roughened skin uncovered by his beard.

When Legolas Thranduilion and Gimli son of Glóin depart from Mithlond, Tauriel watches from her perch on a rock that juts out from the water. There are no more ships at harbor that can bear anyone else. Her beautiful elven-prince and his dwarven lord are the last to go.

* * *

Purpose as she has not felt for hundreds of years ignites her spirit. She pushes herself as before, reacquainting herself with the waterpaths that lead to the Anduin, all of the lands she must run with her bare feet when the rushing rivers become narrow creeks she cannot swim through. She has but one purpose now. Tauriel does not stop moving until she pulls herself through the water-gate of a familiar palace.

The Halls are not resplendent like they are in her memory. Tauriel can hear her every breath, such is the mournful silence. She climbs the carven stairs ever upward. It will take far more to hold her back, after she has braved storms, dragons, and the greedy eyes of Edain seeking to capture her. The years since she has seen him are negligible now that she is here.

At last, a door. It opens with a click and allows her entry. A glass goes crashing to the floor and shatters.

“ _Thranduil!”_ She gasps.

He cannot see her. He reaches for her, he knows her sound and scent as he steps blindly forward. She wears only her bare skin when she wraps him in her embrace and feels how his frame has thinned. What strength he has left, he struggles to hold onto with shaking hands.

When she lies beside him in the nights, she strokes his hair and sings. It is the sea-song, but no longer one of fury or devastation. Thranduil dreams of the centuries, of Glawardis, of their son, of sunset hues over the Belegaer and knife-edge smiles and everything in between. He clutches her waist, face pressed softly into her warmth. Tauriel sings to him, and his pain does not weigh so heavy on his heart.

“ _Tailel danner fain erin gloss_  
_iúriel enni. Lebidel_  
_pannel an gaded i dhuin rhîw.”_

Thranduil interrupts her verse and she waits for him to speak.

“There is a poet amongst Men who warns of the siren’s song.” He muses. There is insouciance in his tone from which she can tell he hovers just before sleep. A lock of her red hair has fallen to tickle his cheek. He takes it between his fingers and worries at it gently. Tauriel watches his unseeing eyes, glazed white where once there was striking blue. She cannot mourn his losses, not now, after the bliss of their days.

“Oh? And think you ought to heed this man’s advice?” She teases quietly. He relinquishes the strand of her hair and drapes it over her shoulder.

“He warns of voices waking those who listen from their sweetest dreams. After which they drown for they realize they have been cast out to sea with nothing that can save them.”

Before she can rebut his implications, Thranduil surprises her by finishing the second verse of her interrupted tune.

 _“Caimmen eniver le mabed_  
_le chebed dan ethiriassel._  
_Ben i naergon hen óren nen erui.”_

When her king finishes, she places her lips on his. “I am not the winter river, nor will you ever have to toil to find me.”

When the Eldar become fables told among the children of Men and those of everlasting life pass into the world of the unseen, the song of an Elvenking of old and his sea-maiden forever lingers among the trees of the north.

* * *

This song and its translation from Sindarin is from realelvish dot net!

 **I Naergon Limraedor** (The Fisherman's Lament)

_Tailel danner fain erin gloss_   
_iúriel enni. Lebidel_   
_pannel an gaded i dhuin rhîw._

_Caimmen eniver le mabed_   
_le chebed dan ethiriassel._   
_Ben i naergon hen óren nen erui._

_Your feet fell fair upon the snow_   
_as you ran to me. Your fingers,_   
_you opened to catch the winter's river._

_My hands sought there_   
_to keep you, yet you flowed out._   
_In this sad tale, I clutched naught but water._


End file.
